


Say No to This

by DachOsmin



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Bondage, Bruises, Crying, Drunk Sex, Handcuffs, Interrogation, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Power Imbalance, Punishment, Victim thinks he can't say no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 19:47:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11516202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Draven glares down at him. “If you insist your body is worth nothing,” he says, “then I have no choice but to treat it as such.”





	Say No to This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [days4daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/gifts).



Tourists come to Kethu from all over the outer rim. The planet’s equators are glazed with salt flats; on clear days the thin layer of water over the salt forms a perfect mirror of the clouds and moons of the sky.

He’s told it’s very pretty, but in Cassian’s opinion the effect is somewhat lessened by the bodies scattered across the flats.

Cassian is far above them, hiding in the slabs of jagged rock overlooking the valley. He’s alone, lying on his stomach with nothing for company but his favorite sniper rifle.

He tracks the unnatural angles and the dark pools of blood through the scope. They’re peasants with old farm tools and hunting blasters in lieu of weapons. There are holo-signs strewn throughout the carnage- something about fair wages and water rights. Just another string of petty injustices that drove enough people to desperation, made them finally crack. A riot- hardly organized enough to be called a rebellion- that had burned fast and bright. They weren’t any match for the private security team the governor brought in. They’ll be remembered the same way smoke on the wind is: not at all.

The funny thing is, it’s all entirely incidental to Cassian’s mission. He’s here to track one of the mercenaries, a Rodian called Yedo. Draven’s got a hunch that he worked a job for the Empire on Scariff and might be persuaded to talk about it over a few glasses of ale- with credits passing under the table, of course. Cassian’s supposed to be scouting out the local bar and practicing flirtatious smiles that don’t make him look like he’s dead inside.

He’s certainly not supposed to be eying the governor down the sights of his blaster as the man kicks at the heads of the dead villagers, laughing.

He taps his ear piece. “Permission to engage, sir?”

Static on the line, and then the familiar sound of Draven breathing down his neck. “I thought I made the parameters of the mission quite clear. This is reconnaissance only.”

Cassian fiddles with the knobs on the scope until he’s zoomed in on the governor close enough to see the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. “I have a clear shot.”

“Do not, I repeat, do not take the shot.” Draven’s voice is a tinny and shrill in his ear; he fights the urge to swat it away like bug. “That’s an order, Andor.”

His scope strays from the governor once more to the bodies beyond him. One in particular catches his eye. It’s a little boy with curly brown hair, face down in the water. He’s small; he can’t be more than six years old. He’s holding his mother’s hand.

Cassian’s life is not his own. It’s rebel currency, for Draven to spend as he wills. Cassian doesn’t get to throw it away on the death of a man that has the tactical importance of bantha fodder.

He takes the shot anyway.

\---

What follows next is a quagmire of epic proportions as the stromtroopers begin swarming over the hills like insects from a kicked hive. He packs up as quickly as he can and then it’s a mad dash through the rocks, hiding and fighting and running to get back to the ship before the governor’s men catch up with him.

And through it all Draven’s voice is in his ear, leading him: take that turn- no _that_ one. Five coming in from the northeast. Speeders on your six. Third left, second right, wait, go.

His voice is clipped and polished into utter sterility; he might as well be a droid. Cassian can read between the lines. Something like “we’ll talk about this when you get back” hangs darkly in every span of silence.

Cassian cuts the channel once he boards his ship. He still has to get out of atmo in one piece and Draven won’t be any help with that, just another unnecessary distraction. And besides, on the list of people he doesn’t want to talk to right now, Draven is currently on par with Imperial Intelligence. He might stand a chance with the latter, at least.

\---

Draven eventually catches up with him in the cantina of the rebel base as he tries and fails to drown the memory of the children’s bodies in his fifth glass of rotgut.

Unlike Kethu, D’Qar is a mess. A tropical storm has pushed up from the coast, fogging up the windows and flooding the courtyards of the compound. In the cantina, the rain is lashing against the window like judgement. It suits Cassian’s mood.

Draven stops next to the bar, acknowledging him with a clipped nod. “Captain.” There it is again, that same flat tone he’d used over the comm channel.

Cassian stares at the perspiration on the side of his glass. “Sir.”

Muttering something too low for Cassian to hear, Draven reaches into his pocket and slams a couple of credits down on the counter in front of the droid tending the bar. Even without looking at his face, Cassian can tell he’s furious. It’s writ in every line of his body, from the clipped silence on his lips to the white of his knuckles. Maybe most people wouldn’t notice, but Cassian reads people in general for a living, and Draven specifically as a hobby.

“With me, Captain.”

“Sir.” His mouth is dry. He swallows, takes a last sip of his drink before sliding off the bar stool to his feet. The floor tilts underneath him and then re-centers itself. He should have eaten something, but he’s had no appetite since he got back from Kethu.

Draven narrows his eyes, but doesn’t say anything. At length, he turns back towards the cantina doors, motioning for Cassian to follow with a curt wave of his fingers.

Cassian falls in line behind him. He doesn’t mark the hallways they walk or the turns to take, content to follow Draven’s footsteps like they’re orders. He’s normally very good at following orders, except when he’s not.

He has no real conception of where they are until Draven stops and keys in a door code, and the door opens onto the spare concrete of one of the interrogation chambers. There’s a stab in the pit of his stomach. Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be.

Draven holds the door for him. It doesn’t feel like courtesy. It’s just one more order he’s compelled to follow. He shuffles forward anyway and walks over to lean against the far wall. The concrete is cool against his back.

Draven follows and shuts the door behind him. He waits until the lock clicks shut before turning to face Cassian, something dark in his eyes.

“You disobeyed a direct order.” His voice is cool, even, and deadly.

There’s no reason to argue with him; Cassian knows what he did and stands by it. And he’s ready to accept whatever punishment Draven picks for him. But he’s drunk and Draven’s voice is too loud and every time he closes his eyes he sees the bodies of the children sprawled across the salt flats like dolls. “It was a bad order. Sir.”

A muscle in Draven’s jaw twitches. “You don’t get to make that call.”

“The outcome was-“

“The outcome—“ Draven slams his fist against the side of the table. Cassian can’t help but clench his teeth, waiting for the next blow to land on his face.

Instead, Draven takes a deep breath and turns to Cassian with narrowed eyes. “You think I care about the outcome?” he hisses. “I will not have you throw your life away for some small-time crime lord with half a credit to his name.” He abruptly looks away. “You’re worth more than that.”

Cassian can’t help but chuckle at that as he thumps his head back against the wall. Of course, because Draven is saving up his life to spend on something bigger. Something grander. Stars forbid he inconvenience Draven’s plans with his untimely death.

He’s tired, tired of all this performative outrage and all the reminders of exactly how little his life is worth. Best to just get on with it. “Are you going to punish me, sir?”

“Punish you?”

 “That’s why you brought me here, isn’t it?” He waves his hand loosely at the drain in the center of the room. “To drain the blood.”

A muscle twitches on Draven’s forehead. “The blood.”

Blast it, is Draven going to make him spell it out? “I’m not a droid, sir. I bleed. Don’t you remember when you trained me with the flaying knives? Or with the whips?”

“I’m not- I didn’t bring you here to slash you open.”

It seems very harsh, making him guess his punishment, but theirs is a harsh calling. “Would you prefer shocks, then? You haven’t tried those in a while. And there’s always false drowning but you forgot to bring a bucket-“

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Draven spits, and suddenly he’s grabbing the front of Cassian’s shirt, and yanking him into a kiss.

If asked, he’d have imagined that Draven would kiss like a droid: precise, thorough, and cold. He’d have been wrong. Draven kisses like a drowning man in search of a safe harbor. He kisses like he’s burning up inside. He kisses like a man, not whatever robotic façade of a spymaster he presents himself as.

Cassian is momentarily flat-footed. Draven’s never disciplined him like this before. He hasn’t heard of anything like this from the other agents either.

It’s not until Draven releases him and he staggers backwards panting that the pieces click into place.

But of course. How better to remind him that his body is not his own? Draven will take control of every nerve ending, tell him what to want and how to take it, make him beg for pleasure and pain in equal measure. He’s going to rip away every shred of autonomy Cassian has. And by the end of it there will be no question who Cassian belongs to.

Draven licks his lips. “Do you want this?”

He forgets sometimes, how cruel Draven can be. Draven isn’t just going to punish him. He’s going to make him ask for it. What would happen if he said no? He abandons the thought. It’s an academic exercise at this point. He licks his lips. “Yes, sir.”

Draven nods; Cassian traces the motion of his throat as he swallows. “Take your shirt off.”

 Cassian shrugs off his vest and pulls his shirt over his vest. The fabric is rough beneath his fingers. He balls it and tosses it against the wall.

Draven is regarding him with pursed lips. His eyes rove over the bruises from the disaster on Kethu that are smattered across his chest and stomach.

“Hands above your head.”

Cassian does as he’s told. Draven steps forward, pulling a pair of cuffs from his pocket. Cassian stares at the floor as Draven clicks one cuff on, threads the other cuff over one of the exposed pipes in the ceiling, and then snaps the other cuff on as well. The cuffs are taut, biting into the sensitive flesh of Cassian’s inner wrists.

Draven steps back to survey his handiwork. “If you insist your body is worth nothing,” he says, “then I have no choice but to treat it as such.”

Then he’s reaching forward and Cassian is bracing, ready for the slap, the punch, the air to be knocked out of his lungs- but Draven’s touch is light, the pads of his fingers ghosting around the edge of his bruises and grazing the indentations of his ribs.

“These are from Kethu?”

“Yessir.”

Draven’s finger stops at one mottled purple bruise darkening his collarbone and presses against the edge of it just hard enough to draw a gasp from Cassian. “This one. How?”

“One of the stormtroopers clipped me with the side of his blaster before I killed him, sir.”

“I see.” He traces the edge of it down onto Cassian’s chest; Cassian holds his breath as he moves to a different bruise, this one a brutal sunrise smattered across the hills and valleys of his left ribcage. “And this one?” The press of his fingers is harder this time.

“Speeder mishap on the retreat, sir.” His voice sounds high and shaky in his own ears.

Draven’s fingers pick up speed, dancing down to rest on the biggest bruise on display, a nebula of blue and green on his right hip. He stabs his fingers down into the bruise without warning, and Cassian cries out before he can stop himself. “This one, Andor?”

“Blaster fire,” whispers, trying to keep his breathing steady. “Through the armor.”

“Stars, Andor,” Draven says softly.

Cassian keeps quiet, there’s nothing to say.

After a moment’s pause Draven’s hands spider down the curve of Cassian’s hips, and his fingers dip lower to the clasp of Cassian’s pants. The sound of the buckle undoing is very loud. He slides a finger through the belt loop and eases the pants down, and the briefs as well, so that both tangle around Cassian’s calves. Cassian breathes shakily through his nose. The air is cold against the bare skin of his buttocks and his thighs. He feels exposed, laid bare.

Draven, in contrast, is completely clothed and perfectly put together. His breathing is even and slow; he might as well be reading the news.

He takes Cassian’s cock in hand with agonizing gentleness. He squeezes gently once then twice, and Cassian can’t help the unvoiced gasp that falls from his lips.

Draven strokes the pad of his thumb down the underside of Cassian’s cock and oh, he could lose himself in this. His cock twitches in interest, despite his shame. This is a punishment. He’s not supposed to feel good.

When Draven speaks, his voice is rough. “Would you like me to fuck you?”

The room is spinning; it’s getting harder to remember what he’s supposed to say. “Yessir”

A quick inhale of breath, and then Draven circles around behind him. The clap of his boots against the cement is very loud. Cassian can’t turn to look at him but he knows he’s close; he can hear the whistle of his breath and feel the heat of his exhale on the back of his neck.

There’s shuffling, the snap of a lid, the ooze of liquid.

And then Draven is parting the cheeks of his ass and slipping a wet finger down between them. He toys at the entrance and then worms a finger in, twisting at the rim as he fucks the finger in and out.

Cassian loses himself in the sensations. When he closes his eyes the room stops spinning around him; he can focus on the stretch and burn of Draven’s fingfers and his own shallow panting.

He whines despite himself when Draven’s finger withdraws. But then there’s the snick of a buckle undoing and suddenly the blunt head of Draven’s cock is pressing against his entrance and then pushing in, inch by inch.

Theres a burn to the stretch and he welcomes it: it’s something that can achor him, something he can cling to. He focuses on the pain and desperately ignores the pleasure that’s building in equal measure.

It almost works, and he manages to keep his cock flaccid- but then Draven pulls back and snaps his hips forward and the pleasure comes rushing through. A moan breaks from his lips and it feels like defeat.

Draven does not dwell on his victory. He speeds up, setting a brutal pace of even thrusts until Cassian is gasping, hanging limp from the cuffs , unable to do anything but take it.

A sharp and sudden pain as Draven bites into the bruise on Cassian’s shoulder, like he wants to cover it up with new bruises of his own making. Anything to mark him, claim him. “Who do you belong to, Andor?” Draven growls with a vicious thrust.

He’s lost sight of what the test is or how he wins it, all he can do is cling to the cuffs on his wrists and give Draven what he wants. “The Rebellion,” he gasps. That’s the right answer, isn’t it? It always has been before.

But Draven is thrusting deeper and hissing disapproval against the back of his neck. “No, Andor. Not this time. They don’t get to own all of you.”

He thinks he might be crying; what is he supposed to say? He’s done everything Draven asked of him, why is he still failing the test? “Please, sir,” he’s begging; for what he doesn’t know. “Please.”

And then Draven is kissing him, planting open mouthed kisses against his bruises with a fervor almost he’s never seen in the man before. Kisses upon kisses as his thrusts slow, and angle towards that one spot he’s been avoiding, and oh oh oh, Cassian’s nerves light up like blaster fire in response.

He keens, high and broken, and it’s then when Draven leans in to whisper in his ear. “You belong to me, Andor.”

He barely hears him; between the burn of Draven’s cock and the firecrackers of his nerves, the ache of his bruises and the numb fall of the alcohol everything is mixed together like a maelstrom, and there’s nothing he can do but feel it.

Draven’s hand strays to Cassian’s cock, grips it just tight enough, and begins to slide up and down the shaft. His thrust pick up, until Cassian is crying out on each stroke, his balls tightening and his heart hammering in his chest. “You’re the best I have. I won’t lose you,” Draven grunts.

“Yes sir,” he whines, because that’s all he can say, that’s all he’s allowed to say, it’s all he ever says-

“Mine, Andor.”

“yes- yes- yes-“

___

Cassian comes to sagged in his bindings, the cuffs digging painfully into the skin of his wrists.

He’s crying.

Through the tears he can see Draven standing in front of him with a peculiar expression on his face

Draven reaches out to wipe away a tear and Cassian can’t help it- he finally jerks away.

The apologies spill over his lips then, the words tripping over each other, maybe one in three words coherent- please sir I’m sorry please don’t I’m sorry please no more-

-but the damage is already done.

Draven jerks his hand away. Cassian can’t look, can’t bear to see his failure reflected in the other man’s eyes.

He expects a fist or a slap or at the very least a cruel word. But none comes, and finally he dares to open his eyes.

Draven is slumped against the wall opposite him, staring up at him and looking a million years old.

He finds it in him to speak again . “Sir…”

“You should’ve said no.” Draven’s voice is barely a whisper.

He wishes he had the strength left for anger. Because no matter what he does or how much he gives up, it’ll never be enough, will it? “A tool gets no say in how it’s used. Sir.”

A long silence. “That wasn’t the lesson I was trying to teach you.”

He lets his eyes fall shut, listens to the sound of the rain falling against the roof. “It’s the only one I know.”


End file.
